


Always Summer

by kjack89



Series: Always Summer [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Developing Relationship, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Friends With Benefits, Inner Dialogue, M/M, Recovery, Rehabilitation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 09:46:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1546367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1511594">Til Summer Comes Around</a>, from Grantaire's POV.</p>
<p>Grantaire was fine with his and Enjolras's friends-with-benefits arrangement, but when Enjolras suggests turning it into something more, Grantaire finds that he needs to face his inner demons first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Summer

**Author's Note:**

> I had always planned on writing the first piece from both their perspectives, but it ended up just being from Enjolras's, so naturally I had to write it from Grantaire's.
> 
> Title is from, and the fic is sort of based on, the Yellowcard song of the same name.
> 
> Usual disclaimer, with the added: as always with this kind of fic, anything said about drug addiction/abuse, rehab, recovery, etc., is based solely on my own experiences and should not be taken as universal. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos.

The thumping of the bass from the apartment below was almost loud enough for Grantaire to miss the vibrate from his cellphone, but since it was a text from Enjolras, he probably wouldn’t have missed it anyway. He looked at it and grinned, then glanced up at the man sitting across from him. “Booty call,” he said glibly, texting Enjolras a quick affirmative. “Guy I’m fucking wants to know if I’m free tonight.”

The man across from him raised an eyebrow and turned back to the white powder he was cutting in front of him. “Does that mean you want double your normal today?”

Grantaire hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, and I’ll take a bump before I go, just…because.”

He and Enjolras had been doing this friends-with-benefits — acquaintances with benefits, more like, since Grantaire was always hesitant to label his relationship with Enjolras as ‘friends’ — thing for a few weeks now, and stupid as it was, disgusting as it was, worthless as it was, Grantaire had only been sober once for their trysts, the first time.

And that time had been a disaster.

He had stayed after a meeting to go over a detail for a flyer for an upcoming protest, and Enjolras had been leaning over Grantaire’s shoulder to point something out on the flyer, and it had been easy, so very easy, for Grantaire to turn his head and kiss Enjolras. So he had — whether because he completely lost his senses, or was overcome by Enjolras’s proximity, whatever stupid answer.

To his absolute shock, Enjolras had kissed him back.

And after a brief moment of panic shared between both men, Enjolras had said in a low voice, “Come back to mine.”

Like any command from Enjolras, Grantaire had been helpless to disobey. And once they got to Enjolras’s, once they were naked and in Enjolras’s bed, that’s where the problems started.

Grantaire had imagined that moment for so long, had dreamed of it, fuck, had jacked off to it, but once he was there, once Enjolras was laid out underneath him, skin as pale and smooth and flawless as Grantaire could have dreamed up in his wildest imaginings, Grantaire didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to touch him, couldn’t wrap his mind around doing to him all of the things he had dreamed of.

Opening him up, listening to the noises Enjolras made, the flush that crept across his cheeks, Grantaire had never felt so out of place, so wrong, so dirty. So he had fumbled his way through it, coming far too soon (though at least he managed to bring Enjolras off before he came). It was awkward and rough and nothing like what he had hoped it would be, and he had thought that Enjolras would want nothing more to do with him.

But instead, afterwards, Enjolras had laid next to him and said sleepily, “We should do this again. Friends with benefits, or whatever they call it.”

And Grantaire couldn’t do anything but agree.

But the next time, he had come prepared. It wasn’t like he didn’t do this enough in his spare time anyway, so it was nothing to snort a small line of powder up his nostril before heading to Enjolras’s. Drugs always made sex better, at least to Grantaire, and doubly so with Enjolras. There was no more fumbling, no more awkwardness – the drugs allowed Grantaire to do with Enjolras everything he had ever dreamed, and more.

Sure, it probably wasn’t helpful, and, hell, Enjolras would probably kill him if he knew he was high when they fucked, but Grantaire needed it, if only just because the burn in his nostril and the thrumming in his veins made him feel like this was enough, that he was getting everything he ever wanted, especially when he was fishing for his boxers on Enjolras’s floor to slip out before things could turn awkward between them. It helped him forget that all he wanted was to curl up next to Enjolras, to feel his warmth, to kiss him and hold him and everything else that his imagination wanted, everything that Grantaire didn’t deserve and never would.

Which brought him to that night, to the bump he was about to take before making his way to Enjolras’s, where like all the other nights before, he would fuck him and leave.

* * *

 

Of course, as was Grantaire’s luck, that night turned out far different from the other nights. It was good for Grantaire, of course, and equally good for Enjolras, or so he said, but then, well, then it all changed.

And what was worse, it was Grantaire who changed it, because he was masochistic or just particularly stupid. He didn’t want to define their relationship — he didn’t want to change a damn thing about what they were doing. But maybe it was the way Enjolras curled against him, unbearably gentle, looking at him with a look on his face like he couldn’t believe Grantaire was there with him.

It was a look Grantaire was intimately familiar with, because it was a look he probably wore 90% of the time when he was with Enjolras. Which led him to blurt out, “I know we haven’t really discussed, you know, this, whatever  _this_ is, but—”

He longed for validation, for the reminder that he was overstretching here, for the reminder that he should be happy and content with the small part of Enjolras he was privy to, but instead, Enjolras smiled up at him to say, “Look, I like you.”

And just like that, Grantaire’s heart seemed to stop. Enjolras went on, still talking, but Grantaire didn’t hear a word that he was saying, trying to process those three simple words that he had never expected to hear Enjolras say, because what was he supposed to do now?

He had been in love with Enjolras for as long as he could remember, but he couldn’t even get through fucking him without being high, for fear of fucking up and ruining things. How the fuck was he supposed to…to go on dates, or to hold hands in public, or to do any of those fucking things? Fuck, he was itching for a bump just to get through this conversation.

Enjolras was looking at Grantaire expectantly, as if waiting for a declaration of love or to ask him out, or something. Instead, Grantaire forced himself to say, the words sticking in his throat as he did, “Well, you know how I feel about you. Pretty sure the entire world knows how I feel about you.”

Thankfully, that worked, distracting Enjolras sufficiently, but Grantaire’s mind wouldn’t rest, torn between wanting to run away and wanting to stay, wanting to try, even though he knew that he couldn’t. Enjolras was asking, “Are you ok?”, and Grantaire quickly managed a smile and kissed Enjolras’s forehead.

“Fine,” he lied, hopefully convincingly. “Just tired. Getting fucked into a mattress will do that to a guy, you know.” He wasn’t tired, not at all — if anything, he was more awake than he had been in weeks, or so it felt. “We can continue this conversation tomorrow.”

He had no intention of continuing this conversation. He had every intention of avoiding this conversation and the inevitable fallout from this conversation as long as he possibly could.

Luckily, Enjolras bought it, and burrowed against Grantaire’s side as he acquiesced. Grantaire’s breathing seemed to stutter as he looked down at Enjolras, at his beautiful form, at the way in which he closed his eyes and curled against Grantaire as if there was no one else in the world whom he’d rather be with, and despite the many emotions rushing through Grantaire’s body, despite everything, he nonetheless kissed Enjolras’s forehead and whispered, “I love you.”

It was the truest thing he’d said all night.

Then he waited for Enjolras’s breathing to even out, waited for his arm across Grantaire’s stomach to grow heavy, and wriggled out of bed, leaving Enjolras asleep, alone.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t be with Enjolras when it took this much out of him, when it took cocaine and booze and whatever else to get him to this point. But he couldn’t  _not_  be with Enjolras because…well, because he loved him. Plain and simple.

Which left only one choice.

So while Enjolras’s breathing deepened into snores, Grantaire dug his cellphone out of his jeans pocket and texted Joly, the only one who might slightly understand. “ _I need help. Plz_.”

Joly texted back within a minute. “ _Where do you want to meet?_ ”

Grantaire didn’t know what he’d done to deserve a friend like Joly, who knew — or at least suspected — what Grantaire did, and had told him before that he supported Grantaire no matter what, and would offer whatever help he might need. Granted, Grantaire hadn’t suspected that he would need this kind of help, and certainly not at ass o’clock in the morning, but that didn’t really matter now.

Instead he texted him back with a location, took one last look at Enjolras’s sleeping form, and left.

* * *

 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Joly asked for the tenth time, drumming his fingers almost nervously against the steering wheel.

Grantaire half-smiled at him. “You’re the one who more or less talked me into this,” he pointed out. “Why are you so determined to talk me out of it?”

Joly frowned at him. “I didn’t talk you into this,” he told him, his voice low and serious. “And do I need to quote the statistics to you again? Because this isn’t a one-step solution. This may be the first step, but the chances of relapse, particularly if you’re doing this because you feel like you have to, rather than because you want to—”

“Joly,” Grantaire interrupted, reaching out to touch his hand lightly, stopping the incessant drumming of his fingers. “I want this. Trust me. I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t want this.”

After a long moment, Joly nodded, and managed a small smile, which Grantaire returned. It had been a long night, and neither of them had slept since Grantaire texted Joly. Instead, they had stayed up through the early hours of the morning at a twenty-four hour diner, sipping cups of bitter black coffee as Grantaire laid out his entire sordid history while Joly just listened.

When Grantaire had finished, Joly had taken another sip of coffee and asked, “Alright, so what do you want to do about it?”

Grantaire had stared at him. “What do you mean?” he had asked. “I thought that was why you were here, to tell me what I need to do.”

“Grantaire, as long as I have known you, you have never once listened to a damn thing I’ve told you,” Joly had said patiently. “I can suggest and I can urge and I can nudge you in the right direction, but only you can make this decision for yourself.” He had shrugged and sat back in his seat. “I think you know what you need to do, but it’s a question of what you  _want_  to do.”

And that was how they ended up here, sitting in Bossuet’s beater of a car outside of a rehabilitation clinic, where a friend of Joly’s from med school worked. Grantaire repeated, “I  _do_  want this. Though I don’t know if I’m sold on the not-telling-Enjolras part.”

That had been one of Joly’s suggestions as well. When Grantaire had — finally, after two long hours of not talking and conspicuously avoiding the topic — suggested that he was considering rehab, Joly had been supportive. Up until the point when Grantaire asked what he should tell Enjolras. Then Joly had said simply that he shouldn’t tell him anything, and that Enjolras should be the last thing on Grantaire’s mind when it came to his sobriety.

At the time, Grantaire had been grudgingly in favor of it. Now that the reality of thirty days without any contact with Enjolras seemed more than a little daunting.

“The choice is entirely yours,” Joly told him. “If you think that telling him is what you need to do in order to begin this process, that’s your prerogative.”

“But you don’t agree.”

Joly shrugged. “I’m not the one whose life and recovery is at stake. What I think doesn’t matter.”

Grantaire made a face. “That’s not exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Joly made a face right back, sticking his tongue out until Grantaire smiled slightly, and then, in a much more serious tone, said, “If you want my honest opinion, I think that you’re not in the right headspace right now to have this conversation with Enjolras. Your relationship with Enjolras at the moment is so inherently tied to your drug use that I think it’s going to be at best a triggering conversation, which is problematic going into rehab, and at worst, will make you abandon the idea of rehab all together. Which, again, is completely, 100% your choice, and you know that I will support you regardless of what you decide, but I want you to make the decision you think is best for yourself.”

For a long moment, Grantaire was quiet, but then he sighed and nodded. “So no Enjolras,” he muttered. He dug his cellphone from his pocket and hesitated a moment before holding it out to Joly. “You know when to text everyone from me?” Joly nodded, watching Grantaire carefully, and Grantaire bit his lip before blurting, “Enjolras is going to hate me.”

Joly did not try to reassure him, did not try to convince him that Enjolras could never hate him, because he couldn’t make that promise. Instead, he gently took the cellphone from Grantaire’s outstretched hand and told him calmly, “And if he does, he’s an asshole. Does the possibility of Enjolras hating you outweigh how much you currently hate yourself for what you’ve been putting yourself through?” After a long moment, Grantaire shook his head. “Then fuck him. If he honestly hates you for this, he’s not worth it. But you—” Joly jabbed Grantaire in the chest, none too gently “—you  _are_  worth it.”

For once, Grantaire did not try to laugh this off, or shrug away from it, or anything of the sort. Instead, he ducked his head and nodded slowly. “Yeah. I guess.” He took a deep breath. “So I’m really doing this.”

“Only if it’s what you want.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Want seems kind of irrelevant at this point. What I want is a normal life with the guy I’ve been in love with forever, and the only way to get there seems to be to do this.”

He took another deep breath, and opened the car door, pausing halfway out of the car. “You’re going to clean out my place to make sure there’s no blow left?”

“It will be as if it was never there,” Joly promised. He reached out to grip Grantaire’s hand. “For what it’s worth, I  _know_  that you can do this.”

Grantaire managed a weak smile. “It’s worth a lot,” he told him sincerely. Then, after one more hesitation, Grantaire got out the car and stood to face the rehab clinic.

Joly beamed at him. “One foot in front of the other,” he told him. “There’s a song about that—”

“Please don’t sing it,” Grantaire muttered, without turning back.

“—but I think you’ve got the gist. I’ll bring some clothes from your place over after I clean everything. The nurses will make sure that you get them.” Grantaire nodded wordless, still staring at the building, and Joly said quietly, “You can do it.”

Without saying anything, Grantaire glanced back over his shoulder to smile at Joly, then quickly climbed up the steps to the rehab’s door and disappeared inside.

* * *

 

Grantaire had been on and off of cocaine for long enough to know the general withdrawal symptoms, but what he hadn’t known or couldn’t have guessed was how deeply and acutely they would hit this time around. Not even a week passed in rehab and Grantaire was at one of his lowest points.

It was no secret to anyone that Grantaire had struggled with depression on top of his substance abuse problems, and without the high from cocaine to distract him and without the numbing buzz of alcohol to put him to sleep, Grantaire could do nothing but sit in his room at all hours of the night — insomnia was one of the  _best_  side effects of cocaine withdrawal — alone with just his thoughts and worst insecurities for company.

He felt completely worthless.

He  _was_  completely worthless.

What kind of fucked up person did this to himself? What kind of fucked up person couldn’t even function without coke? What kind of fucked up person could do this not just to himself, but to  _Enjolras_ , and how could he want anything to do with Grantaire after this?

He wondered vaguely if he was better off dying. The thoughts didn’t manifest as suicidal — not at that point, anyway — but were definitely self-loathing to the point of questioning his own existence. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to be clean, he didn’t want to be high, he didn’t want to be  _here_.

The only thing he might possibly want was to be with Enjolras, and that wa s _impossible_. He couldn’t be with him, not like this, and he couldn’t be with him while high, and he couldn’t be with him in general because Enjolras deserved  _so much better_  than him.

Enjolras could never feel the same way about Grantaire that Grantaire felt for Enjolras. That was undoubtedly clear, even before all of this began.

So what was the point of any of this?

If he wasn’t worthy of being with Enjolras whether clean or high, then why did any of this matter?

_Because it wasn’t for Enjolras._

Grantaire shook his head, gripping his hair tightly enough to hurt. No, Enjolras was the only good thing in his life, the only thing  _worth_  getting clean for.

His brain, however, refused to listen.

_That’s not true. There’s Joly and Bossuet, Jehan and Bahorel, Feuilly and Combeferre and Courfeyrac. There’s your painting. There’s a life that you haven’t been allowing yourself to live. And there’s yourself._

Grantaire snorted. Yeah, right. Because  _that_  was motivation.

_It should be. Think of it this way — Enjolras likes you. Doesn’t that count for anything?_

“Enjolras is delusional,” Grantaire muttered out loud, not caring that he had gotten to the point of talking out loud to himself.

_You’re afraid that he won’t like you when you’re clean. You’re afraid because you don’t like_ yourself _when you’re clean. If you work on liking yourself, maybe the rest will follow_.

Shaking his head, Grantaire muttered derisively, “What kind of hippie bullshit is that?”

But he recognized the bullshit, unfortunately — his therapist had been implying basically the same thing in his initial sessions with her. But it wasn’t that he disliked himself while clean, it was that he disliked himself  _constantly_ , but when he was high, at least he could forget about it for awhile.

Which was about as fucked up as he expected that thought process to go.

And which did mean that the logical solution — fuck logic, that was way more Combeferre’s realm than Grantaire’s — was to work on not hating himself, whether high or sober, because that would mean he had no reason to get high.

But liking himself was a battle that he’d been losing for years.

_But that doesn’t mean it’s too late to try fighting_.

Grantaire took a deep breath and released the death grip that he had on his hair. He was reminded of what Joly had said — that he had to  _want_  this. And he didn’t know if he really did, but faced with the option of things as they were, he sure as hell knew that he didn’t want what he currently had.

Which really only left him with one option.

He had to decide that he wanted to do this. For — as bizarre as it sounded — his own sake.

He couldn’t do it for Enjolras, that much was clear. There was no guarantee that even sober Grantaire would be enough for Enjolras to love him the way he wanted. Grantaire couldn’t control that any more than he could control how he felt about Enjolras.

But if he was honest with himself, what he wanted more than anything was an opportunity to try. He wanted to kiss Enjolras and know that it was just adrenaline and lust pounding through his veins. He wanted to touch him and know that what he felt wasn’t chemically enhanced. And he wanted Enjolras to tell him those three words that had started this whole mess and mean them, even knowing everything about Grantaire.

And in order to do that, he had to want to get clean.

It wasn’t a magical moment, like flipping a switch that suddenly made it all ok. For the first time, Grantaire was glad that he had a few more weeks stuck in rehab, if just to sort through all the things this implied. But he also knew that wanting to get clean was something achievable.

It was a small step, but sometimes the smallest step was the most important.

In the meantime, he was still suffering from insomnia and thoughts that would not be quieted, but now, perhaps, he had a way to direct them. So he went over to the tiny desk provided by the rehab and grabbed a notebook, sitting down on his bed and hesitating before starting to write: “ _Dear Enjolras, By the time this letter reaches you — if I actually send it not just because I’m not sure what the rules are on sending letter but because I’m not sure if I can bring myself to do so — you’ll already know that I’m gone. If Joly’s as good as his word, you won’t know why, and that’s what this letter is supposed to be: an explanation…_ ”

* * *

 

The next few weeks were spent making those small steps forward. Some days were better than others, and some days it seemed like for every step forward Grantaire took, he was further mired in insurmountable piles of self-loathing.

But he started getting better. And soon, the bad days started decreasing, and the good days in the interim were enough to get him through the bad spells. His therapist warned him against becoming too confident, that the bad times could easily get worse (though she had worked with Grantaire and the psychiatrist at the rehab on a new antidepressant regimen which should help), and that Grantaire’s urge to get high may outweigh his urge to stay sober. “Relapse is very common,” she warned. “You’re going to need a lot of support once you leave, and to not put yourself in the kinds of situations that made you want to get high before.”

All of that was absolutely true, and when Joly came to visit, he and Grantaire had talked extensively about it. But one of the best signs to Grantaire was the fact that he found himself daydreaming about Enjolras again, about kissing him and touching him and, hell, fucking him.

And for the first time since that awful first night, those thoughts didn’t make Grantaire feel like he needed to be high.

So when his therapist told Grantaire that she thought he was ready, Grantaire only hesitated briefly before picking up the phone and calling Joly, telling him, “I’m ready to come home. And I’m ready to tell Enjolras.”

The next day, Joly came to the rehab to pick Grantaire up, greeting him with a wide smile and a warm hug. Then, he dropped a bombshell: “Enjolras is meeting me at the Musain. He wants to know about you. You don’t have to tell him anything you don’t want to; you don’t even have to come with me. But I’ve got some bad news.”

Grantaire paled slightly. “Oh?” he asked, hoping his voice didn’t waver.

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure that Enjolras is head over heels for you, even after all this time.”

A genuine grin flashed across Grantaire’s face, and he ducked his head. “Well, that’s good,” he murmured, “because I’m still head over heels in love with him.” He took a deep breath and looked up. “I want to tell him. I want setting things right to be the first thing that I do upon leaving, and that means telling Enjolras and actually having a conversation with him about us and me and everything.”

If possible, Joly’s grin widened. “That’s incredibly wonderful to hear,” he told Grantaire, squeezing his shoulder. “And I will help and support you whatever way I can.”

“At the moment, get me to the Musain so that I can finally see Enjolras after all this time.”

Joly mock-pouted. “Oh, fine, I see where I rank.” He heaved an overdramatic sigh and turned away. “Come on, then. Your noble steed awaits to carry you to see your love. Or whatever bullshit.”

Grantaire didn’t even have it in him to banter with Joly — he was too busy smiling stupidly to himself.

He wasn’t magically better, and he knew that. But as he followed Joly out of the rehab, he also knew that for the first time in a long time, he was full of something that normally eluded him — hope.

He was clean, and he was in the best place mentally that he’d been in a long time, and fleeting though hope could be, he couldn’t help but believe that his hope may not be in vain. He hoped that things would work out between them, because he loved Enjolras more than ever, now that he was sober enough to appreciate the depth of his own feelings. And he was just starting to believe and to hope that it was possible that Enjolras might just love him, too.

So when they got to the Musain, Joly went in first to start the conversation with Enjolras, and Grantaire took a deep breath. He wanted this. He wanted this conversation, whatever the repercussions, he wanted this opportunity to talk to Enjolras, and he wanted to believe that he might just have a chance in this world. So he took another deep breath, and headed into the Musain to face Enjolras and his future. 


End file.
